


Handy

by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Worried Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:20:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26757172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Of_Dresden/pseuds/ClaraCivry
Summary: Jaskier is hanging, and no one seems to be coming for him.Just some hurt Jaskier, bit of angst and hurt bard and Geralt being concerned.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 204
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Handy

They were red and raw, open and bleeding. His wrists. His hands.

Jaskier had always taken good care of his hands: they had been important to him. It was with his hands that he played the lute and oh-so-many instruments more, because while his voice and lyrics where the heart of the song, his hands provided the soul, the colour, the body of it. And he'd trained his hands to make the most careful and nuanced sounds in those instruments.

It wasn't only for music that he used his hands, though. There were many reasons why he was so skilled a lover, and the use of his hands was one of them. Be it man or woman, Jaskier was able to create intense waves of pleasure just using those hands, something that brought him great joy. It was those hands that so many people had come to, had missed, couldn't run away from.

And when he was with Geralt, his hands were weapons. He could punch now, better than when he was a wide eyed kid that had just learned that Witchers were actually not a myth, but actual people. Now Jaskier could punch, use swords and even the occasional crossbow or throwing knife. He knew how to defend himself, but he needed to be able to use his hands for that.

And this time, he hadn't been able to defend himself, hands or no hands. Someone had done something to his ale, added something so that he would sleep through being taken from his room, being shackled to the ceiling of a dungeon, and roughed up.

The first thing he felt when he woke up was the pain in his hands. The shackles were jaded, they were old and rusted, and some of the metal was sticking out, breaking the skin, cutting it as he moved. Jaskier tried to move, tried to get away, but he only managed to hurt his hands worse. Blood ran down his arms and Jaskier screamed, and cursed.

Time passed, and nothing happened, no one came.

He screamed, asked for help, said he would cooperate, anything and everything he could come up with, but no one was coming, and he had no idea why he was there, or who had put him there, where even "there" was...

Hours passed, and Jskier was feeling worse by the moment. It was difficult to sleep in that position, practically hanging from the ceiling, his feet barely touching the floor, his arms screaming, sore, tired. The hours were long and tedious.

He was feeling more and more thirsty, and the more he tried to move and get himself out of those chains, the more he hurt himself. And his head ended up feeling foggy, his head hurting, his limbs too foggy, the place suddenly colder... Maybe he'd caught an infection from his wounded wrists and hands. Just great.

When, after many hours of nothingness, he'd decided he wouldn't stop until he freed himself, he yanked so hard at his chains that he was fairly certain he broke a wrist.

Frustrated, he screamed. Someone was being very cruel.

"if you wanted to torture me, this is a great way! I'm not muzzled, yet no one is listening to me. My legs are free, yet I can't walk. I understand, the irony, how having your hands tied stops your entire body from moving."

Why was he even? Who was he even talking to?

"Did I put my hands where I shouldn't have to? Is that it? Because I never force anyone into anything, yes? People throw themselves to me, I imagine they are unattached. And I am kind with them! If you are not able to retain them....."

This was not helping, Jaskier knew.

"Just tell me what I did, and I will remember next time! I will remember fro the rest of my life!"

Nothing. Just silence, and more blood as he tried to free himself from those chains for the umpteenth time.

Tears fell down his face as he hoped for a rescue, for a bed, for just a single precious sip of water. He couldn't believe that after all he'd traveled, all the stories he'd told, all the people and monsters he'd met... He was going to end his days alone, unheard, unmoving.

It was cruel. It was unusual. He wanted out.

And yet, no one was coming.

*

While looking for Jaskier, Geralt had accidentally killed the one man that knew where his friend was. The one man that had the key to the dungeon and the key to Jaskier's shackles.

He hand't known that, of course. He thought he was just some thug in an inn that may have had contact with Jaskier's kidnappers. For some reason, Geralt had been imagining an entire gang of foes, a whole group of people that had abducted Jaskier for who knew what reason. Maybe he'd been too nosy, maybe his songs annoyed them, maybe he slept with someone he shouldn't have.

It was no matter, the why, the only thing that mattered was the where, where Jaskier was, and if he was whole, if his abductors hadn't hurt him or worse.

But after several days looking, roughing people up

"Where is he, dammit?"

No one was answering him, and he had a bad feeling. He was a good tracker, and if no one knew where Jaskier was... It could mean that he was alone, or alone with a very isolated torturer.

He only had a witness that saw a man taking an unconscious Jaskier on his shoulder to a horse, and leaving. The lady said that she thought it was Geralt, taking him back after some drunken escapades. So Geralt knew that someone had him, but there were no clues and no one knew anything. Fuck fuck fuck. A million times fuck.

*

His hands were burning him.

Jaskier's hands were on fire, and he was fairly sure that they were extensively swollen.

The cold he'd felt had given way to heat, bad bad heat, and someone in the back on his mind Jaskier knew he was dying.

Perhaps he should have known, how his putting his hands where they didn't belong would land him somewhere like this. Alone, forgotten, left to rot for his sins.

Maybe it was what he deserved, his own doing. Maybe he'd bought this pain.

But why did he have to go so soon? Why hadn't anyone come for him? Would anyone even miss him?

His hand were burning, and Jaskier just wanted the pain to end.

*

Geralt was sighing in a small room in an inn, an unconscious bard on his side.

He'd had threatened three different mages, but in the end, one of them managed to perform a half decent locator spell, and managed to track down Jaskier. He'd been thrown is some hole, alone, his hands red and bleeding and badly infected.

He'd been delirious with fever when Geralt found him, and barely reacted to being taken away except for pained moans and heartbreaking tears. Geralt wanted to curse himself, the shackles, the man and everyone's entire existence.

He wasn't the best nurse in the world, but for Jaskier, he would learn how to be careful.

Knowing that he was gone and being powerless to help him, to know if he was all right or not... Well, that had been absolute shit, and Geralt felt that he had failed his best (and only?) friend in the world, once again. The fact that it had been him who'd made everything more difficult by killing the one guy he shouldn't have to only made Geralt feel worse.

He hated seeing Jaskier hurt, or ill. He complained every day about how mouthy Jaskier was, about how way too much he talked, about the fact that he was always following him. But the fact was, had he wanted Jaskier gone, he would have been gone. Geralt would just have been too fast and ditched the bard, anything like that.

And yet he hadn't, because he actually liked having Jaskier around, with his jokes, and his songs, like a bright light in a dark world, that was only getting gloomier every day. Jaskier reminded Geralt of light, of love, of music and smiles, of all the good things in the world, and he was realising now that he'd needed him more than words could say.

He hadn't appreciated him enough, his eyes that spoke more than entire, his laugh that made the darkest days shine, his hands that created that soul-warming music. He hadn't been there enough for him.

Geralt sighed.

He'd used all his healing runes and spells, now all he could do was wait.

The next days, after Jaskier wounds had scabbed over Geralt procured himself some herbs, some ointments, anything that was good for the skin. And he rubbed, careful, slow, gentle. One could even say tender. Geralt had never been good at tender, but it was easier than admitting he'd been wrong, apologizing.

When Jaskier woke up, it was to soothing ice and fresh mint in his hands.

Golden eyes were looking at him, seeing him.

"Jaskier. Took you long enough."

He would recognise that gruff voice anywhere.

"... are you... rubbing salve?" Jaskier asked. That felt familiar.

"In the tumour that you are, yes."

There was a companionable silence until Geralt got up, brought some water.

"I'm going to get you some food. Don't move."

Jaskier had no intention to.

His hands, and all of him were in the one place he wanted to be. In bed, with some water and a lovely witcher nurse.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you enjoyed, you know you want to comment!


End file.
